


like ripples on a blank shore

by rivaini



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/F, Post-All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivaini/pseuds/rivaini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, when Isabela leaves with the relic, the memory is what pulls her back.</p><p>An expansion on the scenes following "All That Remains."</p>
            </blockquote>





	like ripples on a blank shore

When she slips home that night, the manor is silent. Everyone is gone, still out looking, save for the Mabari, who simply stares up at Hawke from his place on the floor. She wants nothing else but to scrub herself clean, until she no longer feels that suffocating sense of decay on her skin, but that would mean going upstairs. It would mean passing by the room, _her_ old room and— no, she shouldn’t think about that now.

When Gamlen returns, he finds Hawke perched in front of the fireplace, still in her blood-spattered armor.

“Did you find her?” he asks.

It is a long time before Hawke answers,”I’m sorry, Uncle. She’s gone.”

“You were right, about the flowers and everything,” he says, drawing in a shaky breath. “I— I can’t believe she’s gone.”

It is even longer before Hawke admits,”I was too late.”

She hadn’t counted on his anger, on the way his voice would break when he roars,”So you’re to blame!” There is a kind of relief that comes in hearing it said out loud, outside of her own head, and she is almost reminded of what her mother told her after Carver was killed. The thought is extinguished before the impact fully registers, and again when Gamlen sighs,”Bethany needs to be told.” She cannot think about that now.

 

By the time Isabela comes, Hawke has carried herself up the stairs to her room and started to strip the armor off.

“I— I feel I should say something,” says Isabela, sounding as though she hasn’t quite convinced herself of it.

Hawke’s back is to her as she slips her vambraces off. “I know you’re not good with emotional stuff.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Isabela would come at all.

There is little comfort in being reminded that her mother loves her— _loved_ her. It’s when Isabela says her mother would be proud of her that Hawke stills, fingers involuntarily releasing the straps of her pauldrons. Isabela says nothing more, traces small circles in Hawke’s sheets with a fingertip.

“I— appreciate you coming to talk to me,” Hawke says a little while later, finally shifting to face her. It’s difficult for her to piece the proper words together; true gratitude feels foreign on her tongue.

“Of course, Hawke.”

“If you wouldn’t mind— if it didn’t make you uncomfortable—“ She pauses, exhales. “Would you mind staying with me? For the night, perhaps.” 

Isabela shifts from where she’s seated on the bed. “I’m, er— I don’t think that’s—“

“Only if you want to,” says Hawke. “Maybe just until I can fall asleep. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to share my bed either, if you— if you don’t want to.”

Isabela laughs gently. “That’s the part I wouldn’t mind, sweet thing.”

Hawke’s lips tug into a slight smile and she says,“I hate to ask, but I— I could probably do with the company.” The way she says it is careful and quiet, sounding almost like a confession.

“Can I think about it?" 

“Of course.” 

She turns away from Isabela again, continuing to loosen her pauldrons. As she removes them, she feels Isabela’s hands at her back, undoing the buckles of her breastplate.

“At the very least,” she says, with the faintest trace of a grin,”I can help you get undressed.”

Hawke undoes her greaves and boots while Isabela takes care of what remains. Once she finishes, her hands resting on Hawke’s shoulders, she bends down to press her lips lightly on Hawke’s neck. Hawke rises, turns to meet her kiss.

”Now go wash up,” Isabela says.

  

It takes her some time. Hawke’s skin grows raw and red, flushed from the heat of the water, as she scrubs the dirt and blood—some of it _his_ blood, probably, but she won’t think about that— from her body. The feeling clings to her. It hadn’t simply smeared her armor or stained her skin, but settled somewhere inside. So she washes herself at least six times over, finding a kind of catharsis in the repetitive motions of her hands, the way it numbs her body and makes her skin sensitive all at once. There is a heaviness in her chest, but her mind is as quiet as the rest of the house now.

She finds Isabela lying under her many sheets, engrossed in a book she pulled from Hawke’s shelf. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says over the tops of the pages,”but you couldn’t pay me to sleep with clothes on.”

Hawke smirks, some of her usual snark returning. “You won’t hear me complaining. But your crew must have gotten an eyeful.”

“On more than one occasion.” 

Smiling to herself, Hawke pauses, hesitates. “Thank you,” she manages.

“Oh, you know that’s not something you have to thank me for.”

“I didn’t mean the lack of clothes, Isabela.”

“Neither did I.”

They lay with their backs just touching, though the bed is large enough that they could sleep further apart. Hawke drifts off more quickly than she imagined she would, the dull ache in her body pleading with her for rest. Closed eyes brought visions of her mother crumpling to the ground over and over, a familiar head on a strange body. Hawke tried not to blink much, coming home. For the moment, the memory doesn’t bother her.

Isabela is awake a while longer. She had shared a bed with the man she loved the last time she stayed the night in a place that wasn’t hers, the man whose heart she broke. It is strange how casual this feels, like they have done it before. For all the times she broke in, all the rude drawings she carved into the bannisters, all the notes scrawled for Hawke, the estate is hardly hers. Isabela would never claim it, never grow attached to something that can’t be moved. But whatever else Hawke is to her, she is a friend. This, Isabela supposes, is what friends are supposed to do.

 

When Hawke wakes, she is alone. She rolls into the empty space, the faint smell of Isabela’s hair serving as a reminder of the night before. Her bones are heavy and her skin hot, but Hawke is filled with a quiet gratitude that Isabela had been there at all. She jolted awake sometime in the night, the image of her mother’s severed head plaguing her dreams, and Isabela had turned over to face her, peering at her through half-lidded eyes. She slung an arm across Hawke’s bare hips while her chest heaved with panicked sobs. “Everything’s going to be all right, Hawke,” she said, voice as steady as her hands. “I’m right here.”

She’ll give it time, she thinks.


End file.
